


Time & Memory

by quinnvicious



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Blood Drinking, EXTREMELY Dubcon, Includes Art, M/M, face fucking, forced blowjob, vaguely post-season 14, weekly challenge fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 19:58:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19180357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quinnvicious/pseuds/quinnvicious
Summary: “There was a time you kinda liked me. I miss that.” Chuck muses. His words trickle cool over Sam’s senses like rain from above. Sam shivers, the weight of Chuck’s hand on his head as heavy as the weight of the ocean—and he’s stuck at the bottom, unable to breathe as it crushes the very air from his lungs.“T-too bad.” He manages to choke out.He feels Chuck’s fingers dig into his scalp, hard at first, and then the force melts away to a soft carding, the digits slipping through his hair like gentle praise. It tingles over his skin and zaps down his spine in a way that’s achingly familiar. The faster his blood rushes south, the more dread rises up inside him.“Yeah. Too bad.”





	Time & Memory

**Author's Note:**

> For the Lucifer’s Cage Server Challenge, Round 1 Theme: Aphrodisiac  
> Week 1 - Writing Prompt Challenge:  
> Creator  
> Front  
> White  
> Liquid  
> Stand 
> 
> Beta’d by nickelkeep. 
> 
> (inspired heavily by the queens of the stone age song 'the vampyre of time and memory' :D)

He’s standing alone amongst a crowd of people whose faces he can’t focus on enough to see, and who whizz past him like time’s sped up and he’s the only one who’s noticed. He tries shouting at them—tries grabbing at them, but his hands never seem to connect with their phantom shoulders and their arms wrapped in the blur of warm winter jackets. It makes him feel utterly hopeless. A feeling he’s grown far too familiar with—wearing it like a second skin when no other options spring readily available.

 

Because he knows that the _second_ he dares to have hope, it’ll only be wrenched away from him again.

 

Time stops, and the fog of bodies comes to a standstill with it. They freeze into blurry shapes he can’t touch. He turns in a sharp semi-circle to look behind him, a practiced reaction to all the little hairs standing high on the back of his neck. His face falls, but he takes pride in the fact that his knees don’t. Standing still among the frozen rush of bodies is that familiar red jacket, brush of beard and soullessness but bright eyes he’s come to loathe with an intensity only the devil has ever drawn out of him.

 

“Sam.” Chuck speaks, but there’s no menace in his voice. Just a greeting, as blank as any fresh canvas. Sam’s not sure what he’d be more afraid of at this point. God’s wrath, or lack thereof.

 

Squaring his shoulders, he stands to his full height for any kind of advantage and swallows down the fear threatening to choke off his words.

 

“Chuck.” He spits out with quiet venom. Chuck may be the creator of all life on the planet, but Sam’s not about to back down now, not after everything that’s happened. Not after everything God has taken from him; and everything he’s put him through.

 

Chuck wears that sheepish look that Sam has learned is fake too. The sight of it boils the pit of anger in Sam’s stomach, making it glow that much hotter. The shorter man folds his hands together in front of himself, lips pursing tight.

 

“We should talk.”

 

Sam shuts his eyes to protect them from the blindingly white flash of light and then suddenly they’re somewhere else—but without the jarring jump he remembers angel flight to come with. He’d expected a field or some kind of majestic backdrop to accompany whatever spiel Chuck is about to throw at him this time, but instead he finds himself in a well-lit office decorated with modern, monotone furniture and a bookshelf full of tomes without titles.

 

“Where are we?” Sam looks around for any kind of exit. There’s no door, and the tall windows are thick and cloudy, letting in nothing but soft, white light.

 

Chuck sits against the edge of the wide desk, lips pulling down like the answer is obvious. “My office.”

 

“You have an office?” Sam’s still incredulous, stance wide like he’s ready for something to come charging at him at any second. Nothing does. As far as he can tell, they’re alone in the room.

 

“Do you always ask so many questions?” Chuck huffs and crosses his arms over his chest like a petulant child. Sam gets a glance at the ornate gold cup behind him, resting innocently on the desk’s surface and filled with some kind of liquid, pooled red and thick. Sam’s seen enough blood and rituals in his life to take a pretty good guess as to what it is. He keeps his back to the wall, glaring harder at Chuck and making sure there’s still plenty of space between them. Not that it would _help_ , but he’ll take any illusion of safety he can get.

 

Sam’s face pinches, his anger souring with sarcasm. “Shouldn’t you already know the answer to that?”

 

The corner of Chuck’s mouth curls, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. They stay hollow and sunken, a glittering echo of the man Sam remembers from all those years ago. The man he’d actually felt pity for. Turns out, he was never a man at all. Just a bored kid with a magnifying glass—and Sam is just another ant.

 

“You said we need to talk—so _talk_.” Sam is done playing along with Chuck’s games. The deity smiles like he knows exactly what Sam is thinking. Sam thinks he probably does.

 

“Y’know, you were always my favorite Sam.” Chuck turns his back to Sam before circling the desk. In the dull grays of the room, the red of his jacket is a stark contrast—it draws Sam’s attention to the cup that much more. Chuck laughs between thoughts, some genuine humor coloring his words as he leans in with his hands flat on the desk’s surface. “It’s funny, I think you’re the only person who’s ever actually _shot_ me.”

 

“Can you just skip to the point?” Sam pleads, just shy of exasperated. He stands whip-cord tense, not letting his guard down for a second. At the mention of the bullet wound, his own still-healing shoulder throbs in pain. “What do you _want_ , Chuck?”

 

Chuck’s smile falls. He looks sheepish again, one corner of his mouth pulling flat to pudge his cheek at the side. There’s a fury that’s destroyed entire continents under that guise of flesh and bone—something Sam can no longer forget after he’d seen it firsthand.

 

“You’re right. We’re really past this, aren’t we?”

 

Chuck stands, intimidating despite his small stature. He buttons his blazer over his stomach with a business-like air, scoops the goblet full of blood up in one hand, and comes back around the desk to face Sam formally. Sam stands his ground, despite every instinct screaming at him that’s he’s about to have a bad time—that this is a monster and he should be running as fast as he can in the other direction.

 

“Here’s the deal. You drink this, and I’ll put everything back the way it was.”

 

Sam stares into the thick red liquid clinging to the gold sides as Chuck gently swirls it. Whatever it is, it can’t be good for him. Suspicion grips him like a vice. “What is it?” 

 

“Does it really matter?” Chuck holds it up to Sam’s elbow level—like it’s a peace offering and not something potentially damaging to Sam’s person. The smirk on his face looks out of place. Eerie, like it was carved into the face of an old wooden puppet.

 

Sam takes the cup, gripping it between his palms and trying to keep a hold on the rising panic choking off his higher thought process. The liquid could be anything. Poison, the blood of some nightmare creature—something that would turn him into a nightmare to, just adding on to the pile of shit his life has always been—or it could be entirely innocent, and Chuck is just fucking with his head.   

 

“So, what, I just—drink the Kool-Aid and you’ll fix everything? Why?”

 

“Call me sentimental. I’ll consider it… a show of faith.” Chuck stares at him with amused crinkle to his eyes. He shrugs with one shoulder. “That, and I’m tired of fighting. I don’t really like conflict all that much. Well, being involved in it, anyway.”

 

Sam huffs a clipped laugh at the irony of that.

 

“What is this going to do to me, exactly?” His hands shake, barely there tremors that are just enough to run ripples through the surface of the liquid. Part of him doesn’t care what it’ll do—but the rest of him doesn’t trust Chuck as far as he could throw him.

 

Chuck’s amusement fades, irritation seeping through like blood through a thick layer of gauze. “It’s less about what _it_ will do and more about what _I’ll_ do if you just drink it. Prove yourself to me, Sam, and I’ll give you your brother back. Hell, I’ll give them all back—just _do it_.”  

 

Sam’s fight leaves him at the very idea of that. No matter what happens to him, as long as Dean is okay—okay and living on, with Cas and Jack, maybe even Mary. Sam would erase his entire existence for even a chance. And really, what choice did that leave him?

 

He steels himself, eyes hard as they bore into Chuck. He doesn’t look away from the spark in the shorter man’s gaze, even as he raises the gold rim to his lips and drinks down great gulps of the red liquid. It spills over the sides to paint his neck and shirt front. The smell is a thick and cloying copper, the taste of what is definitely blood rolling over his tongue and coating his throat as it slips down like a wet eel.

 

Sam chokes before he gets to the bottom of it. He feels the impact on his knees before his brain catches up and realizes they’ve hit the ground. His vision swims, and the goblet slips from his loose fingers to thud and roll onto the gray carpet, spilling the rest of the blood in a thin arc. Colors wash over the room like he’s gained some sort of second sight. Every swipe of his eyes fills wide strips with them, like his pupils are a paintbrush, only to evaporate after a few seconds.

 

He hears nothing but his own blood rushing past his eardrums, and then the sound of horns fills his head—powerful trumpets that make his heart beat so fast it feels like it’ll burst. He covers his ears with both hands and squeezes his eyes shut, but the noise fills him up, coming from inside his own skull.

 

He can just barely see Chuck, a swath of red leaning back against the desk with his head tilted, like he wasn’t sure what would happen to Sam either and he’s recording the results. Sam tries to stand, but his knees are like jelly, his anger boiling over and spilling out in words he can’t clamp his tongue around fast enough. They come out in a language that’s foreign to his own ears; something nobody on earth has ever heard spoken before. Whatever he’s saying, he can see the way it twists a smile on God’s mouth.   

 

Another pulse, a wave of energy that blinds him and has him collapsing forward with his hands braced on the floor. He can feel every one of his nerve endings all at once. Sam takes a deep, shaky breath, and after what feels like years, the feeling finally ebbs and he can speak clearly again.

 

“What kind of blood _was_ that?” He heaves a gasp and looks back at Chuck through the curtain of his bangs.

 

Chuck pulls an exasperated face and shrugs again, his eyes darting high for a moment before falling back to look down at Sam. “Mine.”

 

Sam is rooted to his spot, shocked-still on his hands and knees as the power of God threatens to tear him apart by the seams of his very atoms. He works his throat over the lingering taste of ozone and burning ash. The stains of God’s blood are still sticky across his chest and make the fabric of his shirt cling to him, gravity pulling away tiny red drops to stain the carpet.

 

Chuck pushes himself away from the desk to stand just in front of Sam. He brings a hand down onto the crown of Sam’s head, and like a blessing, Sam feels some of the worst of the pain fade away to background noise. He can almost think clearly again despite the fire still lighting a line of gasoline through his veins. His breath shudders out of him in huge fighting pants of air as the heat pools at the base of his skull and drips down his spine.

 

“There was a time you kinda liked me. I miss that.” Chuck muses. His words trickle cool over Sam’s senses like rain from above. Sam shivers, the weight of Chuck’s hand on his head as heavy as the weight of the ocean—and he’s stuck at the bottom, unable to breathe as it crushes the very air from his lungs.  

 

“T-too bad.” He manages to choke out.

 

He feels Chuck’s fingers dig into his scalp, hard at first, and then the force melts away to a soft carding, the digits slipping through his hair like gentle praise. It tingles over his skin and zaps down his spine in a way that’s achingly familiar. The faster his blood rushes south, the more dread rises up inside him.

 

“Yeah. Too bad.”

 

Chuck crouches down, hand sneaking under Sam’s chin to tip his face up to meet his own. There’s something painfully hollow in his eyes—something so deeply empty that Sam shies away from it and the feeling it stirs inside him. His body refuses to obey him as his instincts scream at him to run, run— _run_. Something inside, something in the blood, is filling him with power and ecstasy. He wonders if this is what it feels like to be God. His eyes sting with it.

 

“I designed free will to be exactly that—beyond my control.” Chuck tilts his head, fingers tightening around Sam’s chin like a vice. Sam feels the connection of their skin like God is reaching beyond the physical and branding his very soul with just a touch. “But—everything else, well.”

 

 

Chuck stands again. He places both his hands over Sam’s flushed cheeks, sliding under the long bangs and over the shadow of stubble to press his fingertips just behind Sam’s squared jaws. He keeps Sam’s head tilted up at him, his face level with his belt line.

 

“Everything else is mine.”

 

Sam feels an electro-shock, like the pads of a defibrillator on the inside of his sternum, and his body jolts. Liquid fire pours through him and fills him up to the brim. It spills over in a series of pained moans and skipped heartbeats. The arousal simmering in him jumpstarts and his cock is hot and heavy in the space between his legs before he knows what’s happening. Chuck pets the skin under Sam’s eyes with a tender swipe of his thumbs. Sam feels the dread reach his throat like a swell of bile.  

 

“You will learn to obey me, Sam, whether you like it or not.”

 

“You can’t do this—“ Sam pants. He’s staring into the washed-out blue of Chuck’s jeans, fighting the God-given hunger forcing its way into him.

 

“Oh, man, Sam—don’t you get it yet?” Chuck fists the hair at the back of Sam’s head, pulling it back to smile down at him with pitying eyebrows. His other hand rests like a promise over his belt buckle as he gestures with his elbow. “I’m _God_. I can do literally anything I want.”

 

Sam wants to yell—to scream up at him to stop, but his throat closes around the words. Chuck’s gagged him through the force of nothing but his will. He knows better than to close his eyes—afraid of losing track of Chuck’s movements and afraid of the tears he can feel prickling hot at his eyelids. He forces them away. He refuses to give Chuck the satisfaction.

 

Sam can’t ignore the heat building inside him—hates the way his mouth waters as Chuck undoes his belt with one hand. Chuck pulls his soft cock over the hem of his garish boxers and with a stroke he’s hard in an instant—perks of being all-powerful, Sam guesses. The deity is calm and controlled, even over every aspect of his own body. He stands over Sam with a blankness to his expression. He doubts this is about pleasure for Chuck—this is an exercise in worship, in obedience. He wants Sam to break—to submit to his absolute rule, in a way he can get him to when everything else has failed.

 

Chuck’s cock is generous considering his body size, but that would be just like God to give himself a big dick. He swipes a thumb across Sam’s bottom lip and it comes away stained with the color of the blood still staining them. Sam swallows down the pool of saliva on his tongue. He wants to disobey, to fight it—but the heat forces Sam’s mouth open just to get enough air into his lungs.

 

A shift of hips and the skin of the head replaces the skin of his thumb, pressing hot against Sam’s lips and pausing there. Chuck’s waiting for that final allowance, for the submission of Sam opening wide enough to take him in, but Sam doesn’t move apart from the defiant glare of his eyes. If Chuck wants him, he’ll have to force him—Sam is through with the games.

 

Chuck rolls his eyes above him and shoves a thumb into Sam’s mouth to pry it open. Apparently, Chuck’s done with the games too—and now Sam’s starting to regret it. Chuck isn’t gentle with him. Sam, frozen in place by one commanding hand, gags around the length of Chuck’s dick as it’s shoved unceremoniously down his throat. The slide of it over his tongue feeds the fire at the base of his spine and he tries to think of every horrible, disgusting thing he can to kill the flames. But it’s useless, God’s inside him now—in his veins, wrapped around his duct-taped soul like string—looping over and over with every second and choking the life from it.

 

The hard cock in his mouth becomes all he can think about—all he can focus on. He’s quickly losing his will to fight as the lightning bolt of aphrodisiac gets stronger and stronger, every strike filling his cock and making it leap behind his zipper. Chuck has full control of his body, now. His saliva makes a slick tunnel of his mouth, tongue prodding at the flesh moving fast and hard over it. Every time the head hits the back of his throat, it gets a little wetter—and his own dick throbs hard in time with each thrust.

 

Sam’s arms shake with the need to touch himself, open his jeans—anything to relieve the pressure. His eyes squeeze shut, and water slides freely over his cheeks, more out of reflex than any sadness. His desperation’s been set ablaze, all thoughts of escaping melting to a sobbing mess of just _needing_ to get off as soon and as many times as possible. He sucks, suddenly parched for the lubrication of Chuck’s come down his throat.

 

“That’s more like it,” Chuck says somewhere above his head. Sam can’t focus on it long enough to care. Chuck slows his pace, grip a little gentler on the back of Sam’s head until he’s eased up enough to let Sam do his own thing. Sam bobs over his cock, slower, but no less intense for it. Chuck hums a pleased note and cards approvingly through Sam’s sweat-slick bangs to push them out of the way. Sam loses himself to the slick in and out of it, clenching his throat around the thickness warming his mouth with body heat and friction. Chuck’s sneakered foot presses to Sam’s crotch, giving Sam something to grind against and ease some of the ravenous need forcing his hips into shallow circles.

 

Sam eagerly swirls his tongue once, twice, and then Chuck’s hand becomes a gentle but firm vice around the base of his skull, holding him with his dick planted all the way to the base as he lets Sam have it. Come floods down Sam’s throat and he lets it, struggling to keep the channel open and relaxed so he doesn’t choke on it. Chuck keeps him held there for a few more moments, even after the last few spurts have emptied his sack and unwanted satisfaction swells within Sam’s body.

 

“I’m not sure when humans got so obsessed with sex, but I can’t say I blame them.” Chuck muses, utterly unaffected by his own orgasm, or Sam’s struggling under his hand with his dick still closing off Sam’s airway. Somehow, the desk is closer to them, and Chuck leans back against it, casually pulling Sam off his cock and finally letting the man breathe. An obscene line of drool stretches between Sam’s reddened lips and the tip of Chuck’s cock as he wheezes through his coughing fit. He’s trying to focus on what Chuck is saying, but the heat is still driving him crazy and burning away his ability to form coherent thoughts.

 

“You guys are all so… _creative_. Sure makes it interesting when you can read everybody’s minds.” Chuck is saying something between the lines. Sam is waiting for him to get to the point so he doesn’t have to hear the deity’s voice anymore, far more focused on the frustratingly shallow amount of friction Chuck’s allowing him against his shoe. “Hell even _you_ aren’t a stranger to a fantasy or two. Isn’t that right?”

 

Sam tries to think back to what Chuck could be referring to. He reaches, years back to when he’d first met Chuck and that thrill of protectiveness first shot through him. The guilty thoughts he had—an intrusive curiosity over what the smaller man would look like sprawled out in his lap, a little less drenched in exhaustion and with his terrycloth robe bunched over his shoulders. Thinking about it now, Sam has to wonder if Chuck forced the idea into his head.

 

“Oh, no Sammy. That one was all you. Kinda inspired this whole thing, honestly.” Chuck chuckles. “So really, you’ve only got yourself to blame.”

 

Sam regains enough control to return to glaring. When he tries to speak, his throat burns with a warning fire. He swallows around the lump of it and attempts to clear the taste of Chuck from his tongue. He grimaces over the way his hips are still jerking in tight circles, trying to get more friction on the sole of Chuck’s shoe without his permission. God takes pity on him and adds just enough pressure to tip him over the edge, sliding it back and forth over the persistent bulge in Sam’s pants until he’s jerking forward with a shout trapped in his throat. His cum spills to warm the front of his jeans and quickly cools to a slick, uncomfortable mess. The burning need finally subsides—but something still feels sticky just under his skin, a lingering aftermath of filth that will never wash away.

 

Chuck snaps his fingers and Sam feels the constriction in his throat go up in smoke. He coughs and hates the way his hair sticks to his face and the back of his neck with sweat. He takes a moment to catch his breath, head bowed. Chuck regards him with a patience born from millennia of existence. Sam can take the abuse, the digs at his own fucked-up nature. There’s only one thing he’s really concerned about.  

 

“…And you’re _deal_?” His words ring hoarse from his abused throat. He clears the still-thick saliva from his throat. “Did you actually mean anything you said or was this all just to fuck with me?”

 

Chuck crosses his arms over his chest. He doesn’t look a hair out of place, his pants done up and shirt tucked in, red blazer buttoned over. Like he didn’t just feed Sam his own blood and then fuck his throat like he was paying for it.

 

“A little bit of both.” He nods. “I wasn’t lying, Sam. I’ll bring them all back.”

 

Something like relief floods through Sam. A tear spills over, his eyes already raw and salt-ridden from the rough face-fucking. He falls back and the carpet meets his ass as his thighs give out under him, legs sliding to either side. But he’s not _stupid_.

 

“What’s the catch?” He feels hollow, voice wet.

 

Chuck regards him, expression considering. Like he’s weighing up how much Sam’s earned. He purses his lips and taps a finger over them.

 

“Nothing. You won’t remember any of this.” Chuck stands and his hands slide to rest in the pockets of his jeans. “Everything will go back to the way it was—and maybe this time, you’ll get it right.”

 

Sam isn’t sure what he means by that. In the next blink, Chuck goes from standing in front of the desk to looming over him, one hand stretching towards his head. Sam closes his eyes against the blinding light as Chuck’s fingers connect with his forehead. Chuck’s words ring in his ears, making Sam wonder, for the last moment he has to think, just how many times Chuck’s pressed the reset button—and how many times he’ll do it again.

 

He grows cold, and then he can’t remember feeling anything at all.


End file.
